


Parenthesis

by hoomhum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Fluff, Lestrade has reading glasses, M/M, Sightseeing, Vacation, what Greg and Mycroft were up to during s1e2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: Mycroft and Lestrade are in Paris while Sherlock and John investigate the case of the Chinese smugglers.





	Parenthesis

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on livejournal in 2012. My first ever mystrade fic. Nothing but fluff.

The first call comes when they’re still at the airport, of all places. It’s a testament to Sherlock’s case-focused tunnel vision that he doesn’t have something to say about the echoing announcements being made in French that the phone is surely transmitting through the speakers.  
  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock says, voice a mixture of drawling leisure and excitement all mixed into one. Mycroft passes Greg a glance, to which he responds by mouthing Sherlock’s name. Mycroft frowns. “I’ve a body for you, something an independent client turned up. Come at once, address to follow.”  
  
He hangs up before Greg can get a word in edgewise.  
  
“Tell me he hasn’t gotten into any trouble,” Mycroft sighs. He takes Greg’s laptop bag before he can drop it in the juggle to get the notebook from his jacket pocket.  
  
“Nah.” Greg scribbles out the address from the text that had arrived immediately following Sherlock’s phone call. Tourists swarm around them, stopped as they are just outside the baggage claim in Charles de Gaulle. “He’s got a case.”  
  
“Oh.” Mycroft attempts to hide his disappointment by looking away, checking for a monitor that displays departing flight times. “Of course, if you need to return, we can always—“  
  
Greg shuts him up with a quick peck on the lips. “Don’t be daft. I’m not the only DI at Scotland Yard.”  
  
~  
  
They’re in bed the next time word from London reaches them. Nothing indecorous, but both propped against the headboard in their not inconsiderably sized suite. Mycroft had insisted.  _It isn’t a holiday, Gregory, if you make no attempt to spoil yourself._  The sun has already sunk below the horizon and both are filled with a lazy contentment.  
  
The novel Greg is reading is fairly compelling, but not enough so that his attention isn’t pulled away by the slight chuckle that comes from his right.  
  
“Hmm?” he asks, leaning against Mycroft to better see his laptop. His reading glasses slide down his nose a bit as Mycroft angles the screen toward him. It appears to be a community support file.  
  
“It seems our Doctor Watson has gotten himself into a spot of trouble,” Mycroft says, smile evident in his voice. “He’s been taken in for vandalism.”  
  
“John?” Greg leans closer, eyes scanning the text. “There’s no way that isn’t Sherlock’s doing.”  
  
“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees. “He does have a penchant for getting others into trouble.”  
  
Greg watches as Mycroft fires off an email to his assistant to make sure that no record of what is sure to be a misunderstanding will permanently blemish John’s record. There is a small flutter in Greg’s throat, watching Mycroft exert his considerable influence. He marks the page in his book and sets it aside.  
  
“What about you? Is it a Holmes thing, getting people into trouble?” He leans closer, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft’s grin is predatory as he sets aside his computer and gently, ever so gently, removes Greg’s glasses and puts them away. His voice is deeper when he next speaks, following a quick nip to Greg’s earlobe.  
  
“I think a bit of trouble can certainly be arranged, Detective Inspector.”  
  
~  
  
They had both agreed to leave their phones on over the course of the trip; no sense in returning to find everything in shambles. Nonetheless, Greg rolls his eyes when he next answers the phone. They are at the Louvre, meandering the corridors before lunch. Mycroft promised they’d eat somewhere less fancy today, after last night’s dinner in their best suits.  
  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says. It’s an effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice.  
  
“He’s impossible,” comes the voice on the other end of the line, without preamble. Dimmock. Greg can’t say he wasn’t expecting this call, but he had hoped Sherlock might behave.  
  
“What’s he done now?”  
  
Mycroft captures his free hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze as Dimmock responds .”What hasn’t he done? Is it is always like this, in the dark the whole way through? Honestly, is it worth it?”  
  
“You’ve seen his track record, you tell me. It’s your case, your choice. He’s a prat, but he’s good at what he does.”  
  
Dimmock’s sigh is a rush of static through the phone, which makes Greg wrinkle his nose. Mycroft’s resulting fond smile has him turning away, slightly embarrassed.  
  
“Yeah, well. Don’t take any more holidays, will you? No need to punish the rest of us.”  
  
Mycroft raises their joined hands and presses a kiss to Greg’s knuckles. Blushing at such a chaste, romantic move, Greg smiles.  
  
“No promises.”  
  
~  
  
Their last day in Paris is a rush of last minute tourism ( _I can’t believe you’ve never been, Gregory. That simply must be rectified._ ). By the evening they’re both exhausted, but as giddy as schoolboys. Sightseeing had turned into something of a whirlwind tour of all the places in front of which they could snog before the daylight ran out. After more than a little wine with their supper, it’s not location that matters anymore. Quantity is exchanged for quality.  
  
It is for this reason that neither of them hear the ‘ding’ of a text message or the incessant buzzing of a call. They are far too preoccupied with lips and hands, dragging clothes away from skin to get as close as it is possible to be.  
  
At first they are fast and desperate to finish. Greg appreciates the large bed, the excess of flat surface which they can use to their advantage. The second round is slower, sweet and familiar. It is drawn out to such length that Greg’s thighs begin to ache with the exercise, trembling faintly. When Mycroft’s mouth pulls him over the edge, he goes without resisting and sinks, relieved, onto the feather down beside the most powerful man in the world.  
  
They lay for an hour, intertwined and dozing. Satisfaction seeps into their languid bodies, minds blissfully absent.  
  
“When’s the flight?” Greg murmurs, running the arch of his foot along Mycroft’s bare calf. The hair tickles and he squirms, rolling over and punching a pillow into shape so that he can face his lover comfortably.  
  
“Nine,” Mycroft slurs, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Greg swears in complaint. “It was your idea, love. You insisted on taking a half day.”  
  
“Fine,” Greg grumbles. “But you’d better buy me breakfast.” He drags the duvet more comfortably around his shoulders, places a hand over the center of Mycroft’s chest. Unaware of the chaos that came with the completion of Sherlock’s case, they both drift peacefully off. Tomorrow they’ll deal with the aftermath.


End file.
